Trapped In My Mind
by Super-Dog11
Summary: Stiles is a patient at the Beacon Hills Mental Health Center. He is quirky and talkative and annoys the hell out of everyone. He suffers from sever, violent hallucinations. Derek Hale is a med student. His final project is to document and diagnose Stiles Stilinski before the term is over. But Stiles might just turn into much more than just a patient. Sterek, AU
1. Chapter 1

_I'm trapped in my mind and I know it's crazy_

_Hey, it's not that bad at all_

_When you think of the world, I know it's crazy_

_Hey, I'm not that bad at all_

_Oh, I'm trapped in my mind, baby_

_I don't think I'll ever get out_

_Oh, I'm trapped in my mind, baby_

_I don't think I'll ever get out, yeah_

* * *

Derek Hale exhaled loudly, glaring down at the thick folder on the table before him. This was it. His finale project, his final grade, his ticket out of the hell that was med school. His grades so far and been fluctuating from a B to an A, but lately it had been at a high C. Now, for a normal student, it would be fine, it was a passing grade. But Derek was a _Hale. _And Hales did not receive C's as a final grade.

He ran a hand across his stubbled jaw in annoyance. If he aced this project, his grade would jump to a high A. _If_ he aced it. The project was centered around a mental health patient, already pre-picked, and meeting with them three times a week for an entire school term. By the time the term ends, you had to have a twelve page essay explaining the patient's antics and habits, their likes and dislikes, their past and memories. Then a final paper diagnosing the patient and that was that.

Derek was really not in the mood for hanging around in a mental asylum, surrounded by drooling, ditzy people who couldn't tell reality from fantasy. This was defiantly going to put a rock in his strict life schedule. And from the look of the folder, the thickness, he was going to miss his sister's get-together party that she had threatened him about attending on several occasions. At least when she killed him, he'd be a graduated med student.

"Would you liked something to drink?" Derek looked up startled. He had forgotten he was in a coffee shop, drowned in his thoughts.

"A coffee would be fine. Black." The girl shot him a wide, flirty smile before skipping off, blonde curls swaying with her step.

He sighed, pressing fingers to his eyes tiredly. This was going to suck major balls.

* * *

Stiles stared down at his restrained hands. The cuffs were lose, thin, the chain in-between a decent length to allow him some ability to move. He really didn't like the cuffs. He moved his gaze to stare at his inmates, a girl, Erica?, was sitting with her doctor, talking loudly and flashing smiles. She was here for extreme seizures. Boyd, a big black guy that had threatened Stiles on several times was sitting by himself, eating, hands also chained. He was prone to violence and had horrible fits that Stiles may or may not had caused a few times.

Stiles frowned, turning his head. He was looking for someone else. They always played chess together during recess when Stiles was chained up. When he wasn't, they went outside and played kick ball with the other patients.

"Hi, Stiles." Isaac Lahey slid in the seat across from Stiles, smile and eyes timid. Stiles grinned back, straightening up. Isaac was a curly-haired boy with bright blue eyes and a shy personality. Getting beaten to a pulp from your own dad had that effect on you. It also made you have severe panic attacks, extreme paranoia, mild hallucinations/flashbacks, and big trust issues.

"Hey! Isaac! What's up, man, big guy?" Okay, he was little hyper, but he'd been cooped up for the past three days after his last meltdown. You gotta give a guy some slack, yknow?

"Uh, nothing, Stiles, my.. man. How are you?" Isaac asked softly, his eyes darting to Stiles' chained hands for a moment.

"I've been alright. I just got used to the meds they were popping me." Stiles grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes. His hallucinations were always worse after he got used to the pills. The wolf was always there, eyes red and mouth dripping.

Stiles shivered. He really needed to take his mind off of things. Isaac was watching him carefully, his blue eyes measuring his actions. Stiles managed a half-hearted grin but he wasn't buying it. You could never really fool Isaac. It was like had a lie detector on him at all times.

Isaac touched Stiles' knuckles softly, frowning, before retracting his hand and toying with a chess piece. "I suck at chess."

Stiles snorted and rolled his eyes. "I gathered that from the last hundreds times we've played. If you haven't noticed, I suck also." Isaac glared at him.

"No you don't. You're super smart and you always guess where I'm about to move. It's not fair." There he went again with the lie-detecting thing. It never ceased to creep Stiles out.

"Okay, fine. What else are we gonna do? I can't spread my hands more than a foot apart and that really won't help during kickball, especially when I go to catch because they always aim at my face." Stiles huffed and pushed back on the plastic chair, the plastic legs lifting from the floor. Isaac stared at him heatedly.

"I don't know. They don't give us a lot of options." That was true. The only real games to play were kickball and chess. There were board games but the majority of the staff refused to pull them out. Some story about how the patients would eat the gaming pieces or steal the cards to set fire to later on. How they got their hands on any fire starting item in this joint bothered Stiles. He wasn't a pyromaniac but he did enjoyed a little flame now and then.

Stiles sighed, bringing his chair back down. He folded his hands underneath his chin, the chain clinking against the-_you guessed it-_ plastic table. He turned his attention to the window they were sitting by. The glass was made from some kind of plastic, resistant quality that no matter how much you put force on them, the_y _wouldn't shatter. There were still bars framing them though. Why they were there, Stiles had no clue. Probably to reinforce the fact that you couldn't get out.

Which was a total lie. A guy named Peter, a creepy, cheerful patient that Stiles was unfortunate enough to meet had escaped about three months ago. No one knew how, there was no door busting, no caretakers knocked out, no windows broken, nothing. His cell door was closed and locked, but when his caretaker peeked in, he wasn't there. It was like he disappeared. Not that Stiles wanted him around, the guy was a total freak. He would smile and glint (yes, actually glint, like some kind of animal) before talking about something you really didn't want to hear about.

Like, really, _really _didn't want to hear about.

Isaac was twirling the chess piece around and around, eyes cloudy and frowning. He got like that sometimes, just like Stiles, caught up in his own thoughts. It was best not to bother him. He'd snap out of it soon enough. Just like Stiles did.

"Leave me the hell _alone!"_ Stiles and Isaac jumped at the sudden outburst. They both turned to see Jackson, one of the newest patients, struggling with a doctor, hands balled up in the white coat and eyes misty. "Get away! No!" Jackson twisted as two other nurses, both big and layered with muscles, constrained him. The doctor gave them both a motion and they began to drag the now sobbing Jackson away.

Stiles winced at his cries, the begging for his mom and dad, the inconsistent ramblings. It was the same for Stiles when he had arrived here. He had sobbed and wailed for his dad, begging for him to take him back home. Then he grew angry and even attacked a few nurses. He had to be sedated for nearly two months before he was permitted out of his cell and in to the mess hall or recreational rooms.

Man, those days sucked.

The lanky teen stretched his arms, yawning. The chain stopped him halfway and he pulled his arms back down, glaring at the metal. They were already starting to piss him off. Isaac snorted at his face and flicked at a pawn, sending it tumbling across the board.

"I'm bored."

"Me too."

"What do you want to do?"

"What is there _to _do?"

Isaac didn't have an answer for that, instead staring out the window thoughtfully. If you looked hard enough or took the time to notice, you could see the sadness around his eyes and the slumped posture. He was exhausted, that much Stiles could tell. No doubt nightmares.

"I hate being here." Isaac's voice was quiet but full of emotion. "I hate the doctors, the nurses, the padded cells, the curfews, the pills, the scheduled therapy. I hate it. I hate all of it. I want to go home." On the word home, his voice broke and tears were welled up in his eyes. This was nothing like the first time Stiles has met Isaac. The first time they had met, Isaac had punched Stiles square in the face and cussed him out. You had to get pass that fake, defensive exterior.

"I know. Me too. God, me too." Isaac was practically crying now, his face turned away from the other people in the room and looking out the window.

"I miss my dad," Isaac whispered, his voice broken. Stiles tried not to point out that his dad had locked him in a freezer or used to beat the shit out of him or that he had destroyed his self-esteem by blaming everything on him. Isaac already knew all of that, he had experienced, yet he still has some undying love for his dad. He would always tell him stories before his dad became abusive, about how they went to the park or went out for a swim or one time, they draw on the sidewalk with chalk together.

Stiles put a hand over Isaac's, smiling gently. The curly-haired boy sniffed and smiled back, tears and snot running down his face.

"It's going to be okay. We'll be okay. You'll make it out of here, I know it."

Isaac would defiantly get out. So would Erica, Boyd even. Not too sure about Jackson, might take him a few months to calm down and then it would be easier to estimate. But Stiles would never make it out. He was trapped, stuck. No matter how hard he tried he would remain here. It was his fate, just like everything. He was destined to be left behind.

* * *

Derek stared at the thick, metal doors. Chills ran down his spine. His skin felt clammy and his knuckles tightened around his leather bag. The entire building creeped him out, the hedges perfectly cut, the newly washed exterior, the small windows with bars. God, he could barely stay here for a few minutes, he'd hate to have to live here.

With a sigh, he stepped forward, pulling the door open, the polished metal cool and slippery to his hands. The front hallway was vast but a burning white, the only color the brown desk with a seated woman.

He strode forward, searching himself for confidence. This place gave him the creeps and underneath his blazer, goosebumps covered his arms. But he was a Hale and Hales didn't show anything but confidence.

"Hello, how may I help you?" The woman's smile was too big, too wide, too fake. Having to deal with psychotic people everyday did that to people.

"I am here as a med school for a project. I have paperwork." He pulled out his folder, handing it over. It had taken him over an hour to fill out the papers. The woman flipped through it, her fingers nimble. She typed something in the computer then pulled out a clip-on with his name on it.

"Here you are. You will be escorted to see Stiles Stilinski in a moment."

Who the hell named their kid Stiles?

* * *

**Kid Cudi - Trapped In My Mind**

**Sorry for any spelling mistakes. **


	2. Chapter 2

_I can't turn this around_

_I keep running into walls that I can't break down_

_I said I just wander around_

_With my eyes wide shut because of you_

_I'm a sleepwalker walker walker_

_I'm a sleepwalker walker walker_

_Let me out of this dream_

* * *

The nights were the worse for Stiles. His medication began to wear away and his dark cell seemed to warp into ungodly demons. Every time he closed his eyes, he could feel the hot breath of demons on his throat and cheeks. When he drifted off, head lolling forward, he would snap awake, chest lifting fast as he looked around wildly. When he did succumb to sleep, his nightmares were horrible, the wolf always waiting with its red eyes.

Some nights, the lack of sleep drove him mad, reducing him to a screaming, sobbing, begging mess. When his caretaker came by in the morning to give him his pills, he'd be behind a barricade of sheets and pillows, or underneath the bed, curled up and crying.

He wished they could give him pills for the night, something to douse the nightmares and swirling shadows. But no matter how hard he begged, cried, asked, they just wouldn't do it. Some patients said that it was so they could you observe without the meds dumbing everything, others said they wanted you to suffer. Stiles didn't really know what to think.

Sometimes it seemed like the doctors care, other times they were strapping you to a table and sticking needles in your arm.

Stiles leaned back against the slightly padded wall, eyes drooping. It must be at least one in the morning by now. He had spent the entire night fighting back demons and sleep. But now he felt exhausted, bone-tired and hungry. He always got hungry at night. It must be a teenager thing.

Early in the day, the doors had opened to the head-doctor, Dr. Deaton and another, unfamiliar man. His muscles strained against his tight-fitting shirt and his strong jaw was locked, probably in annoyance. His eyebrows were creased down, and his mouth in a tight line. He was handsome, Stiles had given him that credit, but he looked too angry, too uptight for Stiles to like. Isaac had seemed pretty interested though. He had straightened up in his seat and was driving Stiles mad from the way he kept wiggling.

Dr. Deaton was looking at a thick folder, gesturing around the room with his hand, then pointing right at Stiles, still talking. Stiles and the stranger had met eyes for a moment, awkwardly and it seemed way too intimate for such circumstances.

Stiles remembered feeling self-conscious in his standard shirt and pants, his worn slippers. He knew his eyes were sunken in, his skin too pale from the lack of sleep, his _stupid _freckles, his shaved head, his uneven hairline. His lack of muscles. He knew he was gawky and awkward looking, actually pretty hard to look at. He was unhealthily skinny. And then the stranger had looked away, which Stiles was thankful for.

Dr. Deaton talked to a few of the patients mingling in the room, clapping a hand on Boyd's thick shoulder, smoothing Erica's frizzy hair down. He looped around the room, still talking, probably going over procedures. He stopped at Stiles' and Isaac's table.

"Isaac! Stiles! How are you two?" Isaac smiled wide, blue eyes brightening.

"I'm good!" Stiles couldn't help but be reminded of a eager-to-please puppy.

"Me too." His voice wavered slightly, quickly relocating his eyes to the plastic tabletop. Dr. Deaton pressed a hand to Stiles' shoulder. He squeezed slightly before turning to his companion.

"This is Derek Hale. He'll be meeting with you, Stiles, for a few months. It's for a school assignment. A meeting has already been scheduled for tomorrow morning at 9, alright?" Stiles stared at Derek out of the corner of his eye. He was focused intently on Stiles' hands that were unconsciously tracing a crack in the plastic surface.

Stiles knew it was mandatory to respond politely, compliment them. But Stiles couldn't bring himself to speak. It felt as if there was a block in his throat. It was getting hard to breathe.

Dr. Deaton offered Isaac another smiled and touched Stiles' cheek before moving on.

Isaac talked happily, his bad mood gone. He talked about today's meal, his chores, his jokes. Stiles smiled and listened, but he didn't feel too good. He skipped the dinner meal to go to bed early.

Stiles sighed loudly, closing his eyes. He was too tired to keep his eyes open any longer.

Stiles opened his eyes to find himself in a dark forest. Mist was curling around the black trees, moonlight glinting off of the fallen leaves. Stiles frowned and turned around, confused. Where was he? He could've sworn he was in his cell a moment ago-

_Run._

The voice that echoed out from the trees and mist was deep, growly. Stiles' legs had a mind of their own. He pounded through the forest, tearing through low hanging branches and tripping more than a few times. Blood ran from his palms and knees.

_Run._

The voice was closer, deeper.

Stiles tried to stop from throwing up, tried to slow down so he didn't run himself into the ground, but when he turned around and he saw the red eyes, he pushed himself harder. His legs began to scream in protest, the muscles throbbing. A stitch in his side made it hard to breathe deeply. A huge log loomed out of the mist.

Thinking fast, he slid around the log and pressed himself into a crevice. He gasped for breath, a horrible, sick noise coming from his chest. The blood on his knees and palms were crusted with mud. The cold air misted around his nose as he breathed hard. The fog was thicker, more dense. He could barely see his own hands in front of him.

A loud growl rolled and bounced in Stiles' head. He tried to burrow himself deeper into the wood, the bark tearing and ripping his shirt. He felt very much like a rabbit being hunted. His heart was pounding like crazy.

He should keep moving, keep running. Maybe he could out run it, run out of the forest and make it home to his father. His father, who was probably asleep at his overflowed desk with some greasy, fattening food close to hand. He had probably worked himself to the point that his eyes were red and fingers were covered in paper cuts.

Hot tears welled in Stiles' eyes but he refused to let them fall. He couldn't show weakness now, not when he was cornered.

_Stiles. _

The voice was right in front of him, right at the entrance. To Stiles' horror, a black muzzle loomed out of the mist, teeth bared and saliva dripping. Red eyes came next, anger and hatred swelling in them. The wolf was huge, taller than Stiles and could barely fit its own head in. A thundering growl drowned out every sound other than Stiles' heartbeat.

_Stiles. _

The wolf opened it's mouth, growls and teeth and spit, and spoke. Actually spoke, its ears flickering.

Stiles was trying his best to be invisible. How come every other time no one could ever see him but the first time he's being hunted, he's the center of attention.

The wolf was practically on top of Stiles now, spit covering the front of his torn and dirtied shirt. Stiles had to crane his neck upwards to make eye contact now. The wood groaned as it gave way to the beast's shoulders.

_Stiles._

Stiles jerked upwards, kicking out at the hand on his shoulder.

His cheeks were wet and his hear was still pounding. It was a dream, just a dream. Everything was okay, he was still locked away in his padded cell, safe and sound. Everything was okay.

So why couldn't shake the horrible weight in his gut?

His caretaker, a man with a tattoo behind his ear, stood with a tray of pills. He looked bored and unconcerned. Stiles shakily took the small container of pills and downed them, ignoring the glass of water.

"Dr. Deaton wants you." Stiles stood up, made his bed, hands trembling all the while. He pulled on his slippers and shuffled out of the door after the man. Stiles knew every hallway in the complex building. He was smart, he could memorize everything if you gave him enough time.

The man pushed open a door and walked into the room with Dr. Deaton and Derek seated across from each other. Derek's shoulders were tense and his jaw was still locked. Dr. Deaton smiled and gestured Stiles to sit down and shooed away the caretaker.

"Stiles! You look tired, are you alright?"

Stiles managed a nod and slumped lower in his seat.

"Good. Derek here will be asking you a few questions, just mandatory introduction, and then you can be on your way. Understood?"

Stiles nodded again.

Derek must have intercepted the pause of silence to begin his interrogation.

"How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

"Favorite color?"

"I like them all."

"Favorite activity?"

"From the maybe two activities we're allowed to do? Neither."

"Favorite food?"

"Food? Is _that _what they serve here?"

That seemed to exasperate Derek a little, his eyes flashing angrily. Stiles could see the muscle in his jaw working.

Dr. Deaton was trying his best not to laugh.

"Any preference in music?"

"I prefer, y'know, screamo, death metal. The standard music that a mentally handicapped person enjoys."

Derek's grip on his folder tightened, crinkling the smooth surface. His jaw was grinding in anger now.

Stiles knew he was being obnoxiously annoying. More obnoxiously annoying than normal anyway. But it's hard to be level-headed with your skin crawling and heart still beating erratically. Dr. Deaton seemed to be noticing now. When did he not notice these things? His small smile that had been playing around his lips was gone, brow now furrowed in concern.

Stiles hid his shaking hands underneath the table when the doctor's eyes slid to them. Derek was angrily flipping through sheets of paper, his pen being chewed to pieces in his mouth.

He stopped and very manly slammed his pen down on the table top. Stiles flinched and swallowed loudly.

This was going to suck major biscuits.

"Look, I just need to get through this project, ace it, and then I'll be able to graduate with the expected grades of me. And I can't do that if you won't stop being a idiot, and actually answer my questions."

Very upfront and blunt. He ground his jaw when he was annoyed. His shoulders lifted, almost like hackles, when he talked. Stiles could tell Derek Hale was not a very chipper person.

Dr. Deaton was gauging my reaction. A caretaker had slipped into the room behind Stiles. If he put up any resistance, he would be easily stopped. Stiles wondered if he would manage to get a quick punch in before he was dragged away.

Derek was opening his folder now, hands quick. He wanted to get this over with soon and fast. He pulled out another sheet of paper.

"What is the hospital you stay at?"

Stiles rolled his eyes. "I think you know the answer to that."

Derek's eye twitched as he wrote. This kid was a smartass.

"What is your diagnose?"

"Hallucinations."

"Hallucinations? What are they about?"

Stiles went to talk, but he couldn't. He liked to talk. In fact, all he ever did was talk. But when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. It was getting hard to breath. Derek was expectingly staring at him, pen poised. He was starting to look even more annoyed now. And to Stiles horror, as he stared back, Derek's eyes glowed red and fangs ripped from his mouth, hair bristling along his jaw.

It was him. He was the wolf.

Stiles hear a high, keening noise. It sounded like someone was screaming. When Derek jerked back, eyes wide, he realized it was him.

Dr. Deaton grabbed onto Stile's collar and quickly began to soothe him. He nodded to the caretaker in the back who strode forth and injected Stiles with something in his arm. He slumped forward immediately.

Dr. Deaton looked up at Derek, who was staring wide-eyed at Stile's lethargic form.

"Mr. Hale, I think you're study session is over. Tomorrow will be a better day."

* * *

**Sorry for the long wait and the errors in this chapter. **

**Sleepwalker - Adam Lambert **


End file.
